Ghosts Don't Play Poker
by Kits
Summary: Written directly after the season opening of season 2. Spoilers apply. Gen fic, to be taken semiseriously.


Title: Ghosts Don't Play Poker

Author: Kits

Rating: T, for brief language

Brief Story Notes: For those of you who ignore spoiler warnings, I'll repeat that this was written directly after the season opening of Season 2. Certain events have come to light that pretty much render this fic as completely-off-your-rocker-canon, but I still liked it well enough to post. I hope you'll feel the same.

As always, reviews have 95 of an author's daily recommended mineral intake.

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Dad showed up after a job outside of Brooklyn, standing at the edge of Sam's bed and looking pale and ghostlike. Sam blinked, sitting up in bed and rubbing his eyes when Dad never wavered.

"Dean," Sam said, whispering even though it was clear that Dad could hear him. "Dean."

Dean made a small noise of discontent, burrowing deeper into his pillow.

"Dean!"

"What?" Dean bolted upright, knife sliding into his hand and glancing around. He stared at Sammy, who jerked a thumb at their Dad, who stared at both of them with eyes that seemed darker and more hollow than usual.

"Huh."

They both stared in silence at their departed father for a moment, who gave them a melancholy smile and opened his mouth to say something. He flickered, like a bad tape or the missing space between a song when it skips, then disappeared completely.

Two weeks later, Dean checked the rearview mirror and saw a familiar face staring back at him. Their eyes connected and Dean turned around so fast that his coffee spilled onto his hand.

"What is wrong with you?" Sam said, rummaging for some napkins to clean up the mess with. He turned when Dean mumbled something. "What?"

"I said, Dad was in the backseat."

"I didn't see him."

"He was just in the mirror."

"Figures."

Over the weeks, he gradually grew more solid, even uttering a few words--mostly cursing Dean for driving too fast (like it mattered to him anymore), or Sam for not holding the gun right while cleaning it (which Dean had already yelled at him for), and once he said a full sentence.

"What the hell is that sissy drink?" their dad said, shooting an apalled look at his youngest, who huddled over his Starbucks protectively.

Dean shoved his brother in the shoulder and shook his head in disgust. "Dad, you don't know the half of it."

It was after a month, trying to figure out how to play poker with a ghost, when Dad looked at them both and took a deep breath, letting it out shakily. Dean and Sam winced when the edges of their father's image blurred, then settled back into place.

"Boys," he began.

"Your bet."

"Listen to me, Dean," Dad said with a no-nonsense tone. Despite being no corporeal body to carry out the implied threat in his voice, both his sons straightened unconciously under it. "I want you to salt and burn my bones."

Dean relaxed again, Sam shifting uncomfortably and looking away at the avacado stain on the carpet.

"Sam? Cards?"

"Two."

"Boys--"

"No way. We salt and burn your bones, you're gone," Dean said in a tight voice. He coughed lightly. "Then who would be our third for poker?"

"I'm serious."

"So am I." And maybe Dad could see something that he never could while alive, because Dean's eyes glimmered a bit, and Dad backed off. Later, he accused Dean of cheating when he arranged the hand for him, and all was well.

He practiced enough that pretty soon he could lift a piece of paper, then shove things like Sam's laptop and Dean's keys around. Dean started handing him guns to clean, and there was something wholly familiar about the three of them sitting in a hotel room, guns sprawled on the bedspread beside them, the smell of gun oil sharp and thick in the air.

They went on a hunt in New Jersey after one of the native 'devils'.

"Dad," Dean wheezed, leaning with his back against the trunk of a tree. "What the hell kills this thing?"

"I told you, I don't know," Dad said between clenched teeth. He clenched his fists, and his jaw jumped a few times. "That should have worked."

"Can't you ask someone?"

"Who do you want me to ask, son? God?"

"God?" Dean shot his dad an incredulous look. "Dreamer."

Dad whapped him upside the head.

"Dean!" Sam's voice came to them. "I got it!"

"Finally."

That night, after Sam had fallen asleep and was snoring happily with a shimmering line of drool puddling at the corner of his mouth, Dad sat on the side of Dean's bed and shook him awake.

"What is it, Dad?"

"You have to let me go."

"I can't," Dean said honestly. "I can't do this without you."

His dad sighed. "You have Sam," he said, and they both looked to where Sam shifted in his bed, arm hanging over the side and knuckles brushing the carpet.

"I can't--Dad, I need you and Sam," Dean said a bit brokenly. His eyes caught the light from between the slats of the blinds on the window, but Dad could not tell whether it was from tears or not.

"Tonight, Dean, I couldn't do anything," their dad admitted. "I need... I need to go. I don't belong here."

"You belong with us," Dean said firmly. His dad bowed his head and then looked at him. They stared at each other for a moment, then his dad shook his head.

"No I don't, Dean. I can't."

"With all due respect, sir: fuck off. I'm not letting you leave me."

A year to the day passed since Dad had died, and Sam and Dean kept shooting each other awkward glances.

"Should we, um, visit your grave?" Sam said hesitantly.

Their dad considered this. "I'd rather not."

"Okay," Sam said, somewhat relieved. It seemed somehow embarrassing to be visiting someone's grave when they were sitting in the car. Dean seemed to agree, and they drove straight through Kansas.

In Montana, they found a mutant breed of nymph that was eating the local creatures in various grisly ways.

"Ugh," Dean said, lifting a piece of raw squirrel. "This is nasty."

"Yeah." Sam shook his head. "No kidding."

"Aren't nymphs supposed to be, you know," Dean made some elaborate gestures in front of his chest and fluttered his eyelashes a bit.

"That suits you. You should do that more often. All the guys will buy you drinks," Sam offered.

Dean stomped past them and ignored it when Dad joined in Sam's laughter.

That night, Sam went out for food while Dean stayed inside reading over how to kill nymphs.

"Surprising," Dean commented casually. "Not many people want to kill beautiful babes obsessed with sex. Who would have thought."

He turned to include his dad in on the joke, but his dad was sitting on the bed, stroking a picture of their family with light touches.

"Dad?"

"Dean." He looked up, black hollows where his eyes were, his face older all of a sudden than Dean remembered it being. "I have to go."

"We've been through this," Dean said angrily, slamming down the top of the laptop. He got up and strode across the room, reaching for his jacket. "I'm not--"

"I want to see Mary."

The jacket fell from slack fingers, and Dean turned around, a shell-shocked expression on his face.

"Dad, I--"

"Please, Dean. I want to see her. I want to be with her again."

Dean sat beside his dad, staring at the picture and silently taking it from cold fingers. The beautiful, glowing face of his mom stared at him, an open smile on her face, blonde hair curled loosely around her head. He cleared his throat a few times. His voice was rough when he finally spoke.

"When you see her... tell her that I still love her. And I still miss her."

They both sat there, looking at the old picture and older memories.

Sam came in with the food an hour later, tossing the bags onto a table.

"I got you some burgers and curly fries, Dean. Sorry, Dad, they didn't have ghost food," Sam said cheerfully. He paused when he saw them sitting together. "Dad?"

"Sam, I've always been proud of you," Dad said, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Always."

"Dad?" Sam turned to his big brother. "Dean, what--"

"We got a job tomorrow, Sam. Go to sleep."

"What job?"

"We're going to Lawrence."

"For what? Is it our house? Did--"

Dean looked up at him. "Dad's grave's there. We're salting and burning his bones."


End file.
